Felon Airlines
A desert hangar, a bad decision, and a southbound sky.
⚠️ Content Warning: Adult themes, explicit sexual content, crime, profanity. 18+ only.
Glass on the concrete. Not a neat spider—just a dirty punch‑through. Wind sighs through the hole and carries heat that smells like rubber and rain that never comes.
Dustin clocks the damage and the open hasp, slides the hangar door just enough to knife through. Flashlight low. Boots quiet. He’s got that pilot calm people mistake for kindness.
Something shifts behind the jet’s tail.
“Stop.” A woman’s voice. Raw, sandpaper‑thick. “Please.”
She’s in county orange. No pretense. Jumpsuit rolled to the waist, tank clinging with sweat. Wrist tag still on. Soft blood at the mouth. The look in her eye says: choose fast.
“I heard the bulletin,” he says. “Women’s prison. North.”
“I heard it too,” she says. “From the ditch.”
Her hair is tied with a strip of cloth that used to be clean. She’s barefoot. Ankles dusted white. She holds no weapon because there isn’t one.
“What do you want?”
“Sky.”
He has half a mind to laugh. Doesn’t. There’s the VHF chatter in his ear from a portable on the workbench—maintenance boys two hangars down, bored and loud. There’s also the far‑off bark of a K‑9 unit rolling the perimeter road. Time is a door someone’s closing.
“You broke my window.”
“I broke in.” She nods at the glass. “Lock was stubborn.”
He studies the Gulfstream, then her. He hears himself doing the math out loud. “No money, no plan, no papers.”
“No time,” she says. “They’ll be here. I need to be anywhere else.”
“And you’re guilty.”
A beat. “Yeah.” She doesn’t blink. “Ran dope. Packed in me. Nobody paid me enough to say no. That’s the truth you asked for without asking.”
“How far?”
“South.” A line of heat shakes her. “As far as you’ll burn.”
The flashlight drifts to the tool chest. He thinks: You should call it in. Say the line. Be the good boy your mother still wants when she remembers your number. The radio down the row pops with laughter. That K‑9 barks again, closer.
“What do you have to trade?” he asks, flat.
She looks at his hands, then his face. The answer is simple and it costs her nothing to say because it already cost her everything. “Me.”
Silence takes a breath.
He doesn’t play surprised. He doesn’t pretend he didn’t hear the rumor about a fugitive in orange running the fence line. He just sets the flashlight on the bench and feels the weight of ten bad decisions he’s already lived through settle into his bones.
“My plane,” he says. “My rules.”
She lifts her chin. “Name them.”
“No lies. No drama. You do what I say when I say it. We get to altitude before we talk about anything else.”
She nods. Sharp. “Deal.”
“Name?”
“Marisol.”
“Dustin.”
Sirens smear the distance into a red thought. That’s enough.
They move. Fast. Dirty fast. He pops the side door and kills the cabin lights. She’s a streak of orange and bruise slipping past the divan, dropping into the back—behind luggage, under a red charter blanket. She’s breathing in through the nose, out like she’s learned not to make sound. He hands her a headset. She shakes her head. No. Doesn’t want to hear the world coming.
“Stay down,” he says. “Don’t touch anything that looks expensive.”
“Everything looks expensive.”
“It isn’t,” he says, and that is truer than either of them wants.
Outside, the apron bakes. He hustles the tug clear, throws chocks in random directions, signs nothing. Ground crew two doors down spin wrenches and don’t look up. The strip of sky under the hangar door is bright as a blade.
Master on. Batteries good. Beacon. Boost pumps. The cockpit is muscle memory; his hands live here even when his head is a mile away considering consequences. He whispers the checklist because the quiet makes the blood in his ears too loud.
“Come on,” he tells the engines. They spool, hungry. He feels it in his teeth when the blades bite air.
He taxis with the door still cracked to keep cabin heat from baking the orange ghost in back. The stairs thunk home. The latch takes on the second try. Good enough.
“Ground, Seven Five Two Delta on the ramp, request immediate taxi, VFR southbound, have Bravo.” His voice is smooth; inside, he’s a fist.
“Two Delta, taxi Alpha to Two‑Seven. Traffic short final, you’re next.”
Next is perfect.
He swings onto Alpha. A county cruiser drifts past the outer fence, slow, eyes on everything that isn’t him. Dustin keeps the speed steady and the face empty. When the cruiser turns away, he lets out half a breath and holds the rest.
At the hold short he looks back. Marisol’s eyes glint from the shadowed rear. She doesn’t move, only lifts two fingers in a little still here sign. He nods and shoves the throttles forward.
Clearance slaps his headset: “Two Delta, cleared for immediate. Traffic two mile final.”
“Rolling.”
The runway blurs into white dashes and memory. V speeds in his head. Air under wheels. The jet wants sky the way a starving thing wants meat. He lets it have some. Rotate. Positive rate. Gear up.
Marisol slides a hand out from the blanket and clutches the seat base. She doesn’t know the words; her body knows the lift. A tiny, involuntary sound leaves her throat—it could be prayer, fear, or the first piece of relief she’s been allowed in days.
Ten seconds later they’re a bug nobody can swat. The airfield shrinks to a stamp. The fence, the cruiser, the window with its jagged teeth—gone.
He levels for now; no need to scrape the stars and invite attention. The desert is laid out like a cheap map. Heat shivers it. The radio spits a search advisory to the north. He banks south and stays boring.
“Water?” he calls back.
Her answer is a rustle, then: “Yes.”
He tosses a bottle. She catches it by mistake, cradles it, drinks like it hurts. The plastic crackles in her grip.
“You didn’t have to,” she says.
“I did.” He keeps his eyes on the gauges. “We’re in it now either way.”
The cabin settles into a hum. The red blanket slides, shows leg, the edge of chain‑bruised ankle. She tucks it back without shame. She’s past shame; ran out of that three fences ago.
“Tell me when it’s safe,” she says.
“Define safe.”
“When I can stand up without the sky punishing me for it.”
He glances at the outside air temp, the chop index, his gut. “Soon.”
She laughs once, a broken coin‑flip of a sound. “That word. People love that word.”
“People like landing too,” he says. “I’m trying to make sure we get to do both.”
“Then I’ll stay down.” A beat. “For now.”
Five minutes buys them distance. Ten buys them a little arrogance. He lets the autopilot shoulder some of the strain. He doesn’t relax. He tunes a second frequency and listens to the patrol chatter skate past like rain on a roof that hasn’t failed—yet.
“Marisol.” He tastes the name; it fits. “You said you ran dope.”
She takes time before answering. “Swallowed it. Moved it. Did what I had to so a man who doesn’t know my aunt’s real name wouldn’t make a point with her teeth.”
“You got paid?”
“I got lied to.” A shrug under the blanket. “It’s a skill some men have. They smell hunger.”
He nods like she can see it. “I know a few of those.”
Silence again. Different now. Not empty—just holding.
“Dustin,” she says finally. “What are your rules?”
He could pretend there aren’t any. He could pretend he doesn’t want to set them because setting them means he’s already said yes to too much. He doesn’t pretend. “No lies. No violence. My call on the when and the where.”
“And if I want now?”
His knuckles go pale on the yoke and then color returns. “We’re still too close to sirens.”
Her breath catches; he hears it. “I don’t have money,” she says. “I don’t have papers. I don’t have anything except—” She stops. Starts again, cleaner. “Except me. That’s the offer. That’s all it is. You get me over. I’m yours until I’m not.”
The words fall between them, heavy and simple. Not romance. Math.
He lets the engines talk for him for a few beats. The steady surf of thrust. The easy rise and fall.
“Not in chains,” he says at last. “Not like that. My rules or we land and you find another bad choice.”
“I’m out of those,” she says. “So your rules.” A rustle. “And your… way.”
He swallows, dry. “Back of the cabin. Stay low. If I say hide, you disappear. If I say come here, you come. If I say wait, you wait.”
She absorbs it. “Rough?”
He doesn’t sugar it. “Yeah.”
A beat. “Good.”
Outside, the desert shifts color—the long, slow bruise of evening. Inside, the red blanket keeps catching the light like it knows a secret.
An advisory pings. Weather building ahead over the border hills. He asks for a deviation, gets it. The turn slides them into smoother air, the wingtip drawing a clean line across the afternoon.
“It’s safe to stand,” he says.
Marisol peels off the blanket, braces a hand on the seatback, rises slow. She’s small and stubborn and breathing harder than the climb requires. The jumpsuit is filthy and half unzipped, county orange loud against the leather. The wrist tag rattles like cheap jewelry.
She steps closer until the scent of sweat and scared and stubborn is a fact in the cockpit. He doesn’t look at her. He lets her choose where to stop.
“Your call,” she says. “Pilot.”
The word rolls through him like a switch thrown. He sets the trim, checks the sky, checks it again. The engines hum.
He turns his head just enough to meet her eyes.
“Back,” he says. “Lose the orange.” He points at the jumpsuit.
She nods once. No argument. She ghosts down the aisle, the red blanket dragging like a wounded flag. Zipper rasp. Fabric peels. Orange puddles on planes floor.
He watches one breath too long, then thinks about sirens, headlines, prison fences. Thinks about the way her voice didn’t shake when she said deal.
“Fuck it,” he mutters. Thumb taps the autopilot: altitude hold, heading set, trim sweet. The jet hums on rails.
He unbuttons his shirt while he’s moving. Drops it on the armrest, bare skin catching the cabin’s heat, steps past the bulkhead toward her—toward the back and the bad choice he’s already chosen.
The space is narrow, dim. She’s standing there, the orange jumpsuit a puddle at her feet. The tank top is damp, clinging to small, sharp breasts. Her legs are bare, dust and dried sweat on her skin. The wrist tag is a cheap plastic bracelet she hasn’t bothered to break.
He doesn’t speak. He just collides with her.
His mouth finds hers, hard. It’s not a kiss of greeting; it’s a claim. His tongue forces past her split lip, tasting copper and salt. She makes a sound—a sharp intake—and then her hands are in his hair, pulling, nails scraping his scalp. Yes. That’s the word her body says before her mouth can.
One hand slides down her back, over the ridge of her spine, over the small black tattoo at the nape. He cups her ass—a firm, wiry handful—and squeezes until she gasps into his mouth. His other hand goes lower, between her legs. She’s bare there. No underwear. Just heat and damp skin.
“Fuck,” he mutters against her lips.
His fingers slide through coarse curls, find her cunt. She’s wet. Slick and hot. He doesn’t tease. He pushes two fingers inside her, deep, curling them up. Her body clenches around him, a tight, involuntary spasm. She moans, a raw, broken noise that gets swallowed by the engine hum.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice gravel. “That’s the trade.”
He works his fingers in and out, rough, the heel of his hand grinding against her. She writhes against him, her hips bucking, seeking more pressure. Her breath comes in short, sharp pants against his neck.
“Dustin—” she starts.
“Back,” he orders, pulling his fingers out with a wet sound.
He shoves her. Not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to make her stumble backward into the rear of the cabin, where a low bench seat meets the curved wall. The plane hits a pocket of turbulence; they both sway. He steadies her with a grip on her hip.
“Feet up,” he says. “On the walls.”
She understands. She strips off the tank top and drops it. She braces her bare feet against the opposite wall, her knees bent, spreading herself open for him. The position exposes everything—the dark thatch of hair, the glistening pink folds of her pussy, the tight, puckered rosebud of her asshole below. She’s completely vulnerable, and she doesn’t look away.
He unfastens his belt, his jeans. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking. He doesn’t stroke it. He just guides the head to her entrance, notching it against her soaked slit.
“This is the deal,” he says, holding her gaze. “You take what I give you.”
“Give it to me,” she breathes, her eyes dark, defiant.
He drives into her.
It’s a single, brutal thrust that seats him to the hilt. She cries out, her back arching off the seat, her cunt stretching to accommodate his girth. She’s tight—fuck, she’s so tight—and hot, clenching around him like a fist.
“Jesus,” he grunts, the sensation punching the air from his lungs.
He doesn’t wait for her to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. Each impact jolts her body, makes her tits bounce. The sound is obscene—skin slapping skin, wet and rhythmic, underscored by the jet’s constant drone. He fucks her like he’s trying to erase something, to burn out the memory of sirens and fences with the sheer physicality of this.
She meets every thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her legs trembling with the strain of holding herself open. Her fingers claw at the leather seat. Her head tosses side to side.
“Harder,” she gasps. “Fuck me harder, pilot. Do you know how long I’ve gone without this? How long I’ve been fucking empty?”
Her words spur him on. He pistons into her, his balls slapping against her ass. The pleasure builds, a coil of heat tightening low in his gut. He can feel her getting wetter, feel her inner muscles fluttering around his cock. She’s close.
He doesn’t let her come.
With a final, deep grind, he pulls out of her cunt abruptly. She whimpers at the loss, her body seeking the fullness he denied her.
“On your knees,” he says, his voice rough.
She scrambles off the seat, dropping to the carpeted floor between the seats. She looks up at him, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with need. He fists his cock, stroking it once, slick with her juices. He brings the head to her mouth.
“Open.”
She does. He pushes past her lips, into the wet heat of her mouth. She gags once, then relaxes her throat. He feeds her his length, watching her lips stretch around his girth. Her tongue swirls around the head, then she takes him deeper, her nose pressing into his pubic bone.
“That’s it,” he groans. “Suck it. Earn this first‑class ticket.”
She does. Her mouth is eager, sloppy. She sucks him with a desperate hunger, her hands coming up to grip his thighs, her nails digging in. Saliva drips down her chin, onto her chest. He fucks her face with short, sharp thrusts, watching his cock disappear between her lips. The sight is filthy, perfect. He tangles a hand in her hair, holding her still as he drives deeper.
“Goddamn that throat on you, Marisol,” he says, the words gritted out between thrusts. “Must be from swallowing all those drug bags.”
She moans around him, the vibration traveling straight to his balls. He’s close again, the pressure building. But he’s not done.
“He pulls back; air rushes in and she gasps. ‘Don’t tease,’ she says, voice rough.”
“Up. Turn around. Ass against the wall.”
She gets to her feet, her movements unsteady. She turns, bracing her hands against the cool metal of the fuselage. She presents her ass to him—the round, firm cheeks, the wet slit of her pussy, and between them, that tight, dark pink hole.
He spits into his palm, slicking his cock. It’s not enough lube, not nearly. He doesn’t care. He presses the head against her asshole.
She tenses. “Wait—”
“We waiting? he asks, his voice low. You want me to stop?”
She looks past him, out the dark oval of the window—the horizon a thin, electric seam. This is a lot. Too fast. Too rough. But the fence she cleared was worse. The cell was worse. If he’s caught, he burns his life for a stranger, and she knows it. Freedom costs. She decides to pay in the only currency she has left—choice.
A shudder runs through her. She pushes back against him, just an inch. “No. Do it. Fuck my ass, Dustin. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
He pushes.
The resistance is intense. Her muscle is tight, unyielding. He applies steady, brutal pressure, feeling her body fight him, then give way. The head of his cock breaches her, and she lets out a choked scream, her knuckles white against the wall. He holds there, letting her adjust to the burning stretch.
“Relax, let this happen,” he says.
She drags in a ragged breath. He pushes deeper, an inch, then two, burying himself in the tight, searing heat of her ass. It’s overwhelming—the pressure, the taboo, the sheer fucking wrongness of it. She’s so tight he sees stars.
“Move,” she begs, her voice strained. “Fuck it. Fuck my ass.”
He obeys.
He sets a slower, deeper rhythm than before. Each thrust is a deliberate conquest, dragging out of her tight channel only to sink back in. The friction is exquisite, brutal. She’s sobbing with each push, a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. Her body yields to him, accepting him, gripping him like a vise.
“Look at you—chasing a border with a stranger and not blinking,” he growls. “You’ll do anything for a chance at freedom.”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” she cries, her body shaking. “I want this. My fucking freedom. Your Goddamn rules. Give it to me!”
Her words unravel him. The coil snaps. Pleasure erupts from his core, white-hot and blinding. He drives into her one last time, as deep as he can go, and lets go. His cock pulses inside her, jetting his come deep into her ass in thick, hot spurts. He groans, a raw, animal sound, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as he empties himself.
For a moment, there is only the sound of their ragged breathing and the plane’s hum.
Slowly, he pulls out. She sags against the wall, spent. He turns her around. Her face is streaked with tears and sweat, but her eyes are fierce. Alive.
“My turn,” she says, her voice hoarse.
She pushes him down onto the bench seat. He collapses, boneless. She straddles his face, lowering her cunt to his mouth. She’s a mess—wet, swollen, the musky scent of sex and sweat and her own unique salt filling his senses. She’s leaking out of her ass, right onto his chest.
“Eat me,” she orders. “Make me come.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His tongue finds her clit, swollen and hard as a pebble. He flicks it, then sucks it into his mouth. She grinds against his face, her hips moving in frantic circles. He laps at her, drinking her in, sliding two fingers back into her slippery cunt. He curls them, finding that spongy spot inside her, and presses.
Her body goes rigid. A high, thin wail tears from her throat. Her cunt convulses around his fingers, a series of violent, fluttering spasms. She rides his face through it, her thighs clamping around his head, her pleasure so intense it’s almost violent. He doesn’t stop until she collapses forward, sliding off him to sprawl on the carpet, trembling.
Silence, save for the engines.
Minutes pass. The plane flies on, steady on autopilot. The desert sky outside is now a deep purple bruise.
Slowly, they gather themselves. He finds a towel in a cabinet, tosses it to her. They clean up in wordless, efficient movements. He pulls his jeans on. She finds her tank top, slides back into prison orange.
He returns to the cockpit, sinking into the left seat. The instruments glow, friendly and familiar. He disengages the autopilot, takes the yoke. He banks gently, beginning a slow descent.
Twenty minutes later, the wheels chirp on a cracked asphalt strip in the middle of nowhere. A lone hangar, dark. No lights for miles.
He kills the engines. The sudden quiet is deafening.
He pulls his wallet from his back pocket. Takes out all the cash—three hundred and twenty dollars. Hands it to her. Then he takes out a credit card, places it on top of the bills.
“I’ll report it stolen in two days,” he says. “Don’t be stupid with it.”
She takes the money, tucks it into the waistband of the orange jumpsuit she’s pulled back on. She looks at the card, then at him.
He scribbles a number on a fuel receipt. “My phone. Buy a burner. It’ll watch for an unknown call for a month.” He hands it to her. “Call it if you get bored. I’ll fly down.”
She takes the paper. Folds it carefully. Nods.
She moves to the door, hesitates. Looks back at him. “Dustin?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the sky.”
Then she’s gone, slipping out into the Mexican night, a streak of orange swallowed by the dark.
He sits in the quiet cockpit for a long time. Then he starts preflight procedures.
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A stolen jet, an orange jumpsuit, and a bargain written in altitude and risk. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #FelonAirlines #MileHighHeat #Fugitive #18Plus
OMG, what an amazing hot story! Enjoyed reading this!